


Autumn Skies

by Mithen



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Superman Returns (2006)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is on his way to dedicate a statue of a true Gotham hero--Harvey Dent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn Skies

"With all due respect," Alfred Pennyworth said as he peered in the rear view mirror at his passenger in the backseat, "I think you've probably practiced that speech enough."

Bruce Wayne made a noncommittal sound and continued mumbling to himself, staring at the pieces of paper in front of him.

"You'll do fine," Alfred said.

"I'm no good at this," Bruce muttered.

"Your evening alter ego does have little call for making eloquent speeches," Alfred admitted.  "But you'll be perfectly fine.  Smile a lot and read your speech and get it over with."

"It's _important_," Bruce said.  "I have to get it just right."

Alfred made an exasperated sound.  "You chose this path, sir.  It's a bit late to be balking at reeling off a string of lies."

"It's not lies.  Not in the ways that matter," Bruce said, but he sighed and set the speech aside for a moment, rubbing at his eyes.  The inside of the limousine was warm, but outside it was late October and the air was crisp and touched with frost.  The autumn sky was bright, a stunning blue of perfect clarity.  Bruce turned his eyes from it, wincing at the memory it evoked of brilliant blue skies...and equally unclouded eyes, gazing at him with something like understanding.

It was eight long years ago, he thought fiercely, banishing the memory.  Eight years since a scruffy young man had met an alien with eyes like azure daggers and helped him stop a pirate hijacking off the coast of Yemen.  Eight years since Superman had pulled him from the burning wreckage of a sinking ship and lifted him aloft into a sky so blue it could hurt the soul, had looked at him in silence, suspended in perfect cerulean.  A moment, a moment that had passed with their parting, and any unspoken promises had been entirely in Bruce's imagination.

Eight years since a nameless pirate and an alien superhero met.

Five years since Superman disappeared.

Eighteen months since Batman appeared in Gotham.

Six months since Harvey Dent died.

And one week since Superman's return to Earth, to Metropolis, and to the mind of Bruce Wayne.

He had half-expected Superman would join the chase for the murderous Batman.  Many had called for it.  But the Kryptonian had merely smiled his opaque smile, and Superman hadn't come looking for Batman at all.

Nor had he come looking for Bruce Wayne.  And why should he?  Why would feckless, careless Bruce Wayne have any connection to a soot-covered thug, met briefly almost a decade ago?  Bruce had nothing to fear.  He was safe.

He was lonely.

He was safe.

"We're here, sir," said Alfred, and Bruce stepped out of the limousine and made his way toward the Gotham City Courthouse and the new statue being dedicated in front of it.

It was a good likeness, he thought proudly, looking up at Harvey Dent's unscarred marble face.  The statue gazed across the square in front of the courthouse as if admiring the statue of Justice on the other side, her scales poised in the moment of weighing.  One hand was held out as if in benediction of the people crossing the square on the way to the court, kind and benevolent.  A guardian in pure white stone, unblemished and perfect.

Bruce shivered a little, the sharp autumn air reaching through his wool coat, and he wrapped his cashmere muffler around his neck a bit tighter.

"Are you ready, Mr. Wayne?"  Jim Gordon's voice was blandly polite, his face expressionless.  Only a person who knew him very well indeed would be able to see his deep discomfort as he looked up at the looming statue of Dent. 

"Ready as I'll ever be," Bruce said cheerfully, and Jim grimaced slightly.  Bruce knew Jim liked him even less because of his tireless work to have a monument erected to Harvey, and he also knew Jim felt guilty for that resentment.  In public Jim was unfailingly complimentary about the martyred D.A..  But Bruce knew him well enough to know he couldn't be sanguine about people idolizing a man who'd held a gun to his child's head.

_I'm sorry, Jim_, thought Bruce as he listened to his introduction.  _It's for Gotham.  All for Gotham._

"...the man behind this project, our benefactor, Bruce Wayne!"  There was polite applause as Bruce stepped up the podium, nothing too enthusiastic.  They weren't here to see him, they were here for Harvey.  Bruce cleared his throat and shuffled his papers slightly, then began:

"Once I said that I believed in Harvey Dent," Bruce started.  "And death hasn't dimmed that belief.  More than ever, I believe in what Harvey stood for.  Justice.  Fairness.  The passion to right wrongs.  The dream of a new and better Gotham."  He looked up briefly at the crowd.  "Harvey will never see his dream realized, but I've seen it coming true, bit by bit, every day.  Every day when someone does a small kindness, every day that someone stops the tiniest of injustices.  And that's every day here in Gotham."  He looked up at the statue, its blind marble eyes staring endlessly at the city, and addressed it directly:  "Harvey.  I promise you that I'll do everything I can, everything in my power, to live up to that vision.  Harvey and his fiancee, Rachel Dawes--"  It hurt to say it, but he could give Harvey that, surely, "--they wanted to see better men and women in the DA's office, better people in the legal system.  So in their names, I'll be establishing a scholarship for gifted kids to study law if they promise to stay in Gotham, use their gifts for Gotham.  I can't be the kind of hero Harvey was, the kind of hero this city deserves--"  Without warning, he felt his throat burning and realized he was alarmingly close to tears;  he brushed at his eyes with his kidskin gloves, hearing the crowd murmur and knowing his break in composure would be in every newspaper story.  "But I hope maybe someday I'll have helped someone to become a hero like him.  It won't ever be enough, my friend.  But I hope it's something."

He stepped down to take his seat next to a stoically applauding Jim Gordon, wiping his eyes again and feeling foolish.  _Sentimental, maudlin fool,_ he thought fiercely.  He was no hero.  Not like this image of Harvey, frozen in marble;  not like the Man of Steel in Metropolis.  He had chosen his life, chosen not to be a hero. 

He had no regrets.

Other speeches went by and Bruce applauded politely over and over until they were done at last.  The crowd dispersed slowly, but Bruce found himself standing in the square, staring up at the image of Harvey Dent, solid and pure against the dazzling blue sky.  So blue.  So far away.

Alfred would be waiting for him.  He should go.

He stayed.

Slowly, gradually, he became aware that he was nearly alone in the square.  One man had stayed by him, also looking up at the statue;  Bruce assessed him quickly, involuntarily, his mind elsewhere.  Trenchcoat, fedora, press badge, heavy horn-rimmed glasses hiding his eyes.    "Beautiful statue," the man said conversationally.

"A true hero of Gotham," Bruce agreed.

The man chuckled a little, shrugging.  "It'd be a hell of a story, if anyone could get the full story.  Too bad I'll never be able to write it."  He looked down at his feet, back up at the statue.  "But someone once said a hero is the one who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles."  Then he turned to face Bruce, slipping his glasses down to gaze over them. "I know who the real hero is," he said.

Bruce stood still, transfixed by eyes the color of a clear autumn sky, over a smile as warm and hopeful as spring.  Then the man turned and walked away, leaving Bruce alone in the square.

No, he thought as he walked toward his car, the wind lifting his scarf.  Maybe not so alone after all.


End file.
